


The Tale of Pixies and Potions

by apropensityforcharm



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Urban Fantasy, faily!blaine, sort of tutor!kurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apropensityforcharm/pseuds/apropensityforcharm
Summary: A cautionary tale of why one should never experiment with potion-making when one is, in fact, a completely hopeless case. (Or alternatively, why one should.)
Based on the prompt “You’re a witch who lives next door to me but you suck at potions so I’m going to help you before you blow up your roof AGAIN”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Von Feen und Zaubertränken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241402) by [Klaineship](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klaineship/pseuds/Klaineship)



 Honestly, Kurt feels he’s been pretty magnanimous about the whole thing. He’s endured the thuds and the loud cursing and the deep _booms_ that send shudders through Kurt’s hardwood floors, and not once has he succumbed to the temptation to march upstairs and put his neighbour’s head on a pike. He’s goddamn Mother Teresa.

Upstairs Neighbour is learning potion-making for the first time, and Kurt knows what that’s like. When he’d been an amateur potion-maker he knows his parents had worried he’d raze the whole house to the ground. Of course, he’d been eight at the time so the situations are a little different – as far as he can tell, despite Upstairs Neighbour’s penchant for blasting teeny-bopper _Which Witch 4 U_ songs at all hours of the night, he is indeed a full-grown adult.

But Kurt can empathise. He remembers the time he’d been sick of being the smallest kid in fifth grade and he’d spent all night constructing a growth rejuvenation draught, and he’d been so tired by the end his hands had been shaking. As he’d carried the potion into the kitchen he’d spotted a grass spider winding its way across the floor and had shrieked and dropped the potion over the spider in his panic. And then his dad had a foot-wide beast to deal with at 3am in the morning, and he can still recall its glassy black eyes and the magnified twitching of its many limbs.

So yes, he can empathise with a little trial and error. When the late-night banging and rattling starts up ( _a_ _gain_ ) he breathes in deep through his nose and goes about his essay on the history of enchanted fabrics. Fascinating subject, really; people have been using scarves as remote strangulation weapons since the Roman times.

For someone so hopeless at potion-making, the neighbour sure is dedicated, and when Kurt gets home from class or work he’ll often find himself wondering what the neighbour’s fucked up this time. At one point, his apartment starts smelling of distinctive, heady sulphur, and he knows – from experience – that Upstairs Neighbour has just failed a potion designed to balance the nutrition of any meal with the body’s current needs. Potions operating at the micro-cellular level should really be left to the professionals, which Kurt learnt the hard way.

Another time Kurt’s just unwound the charms locking his door when another neighbour wanders by, smirking, and tells him Upstairs Neighbour has managed to blow a hole in the roof of his swanky, top-floor flat. Kurt blinks. In all his tribulations, he’s not sure he ever messed up _quite_ that much.

Of course, things aren’t quite so amusing when the neighbour manages to melt a hole in _Kurt’s_ roof.

Kurt doesn’t even notice at first. There’s a stubborn little pixie that hangs around the trough of herbs on his window sill to steal his basil and oregano, and he’s trotting over to shoo her off when she looks up from her pilfering, each tiny fist full of greenery, and gives a curious chirp.

She sniffs the air, shakes back her gauzy wings and flits upward. He follows her with his gaze, and that’s when he notices the stain on his roof. It’s pale and diffused, like a water leak, but it darkens as he watches. He feels a growing sense of dread.

The pixie extends her insectile hand to touch the stain and then darts backward, hand held to her chest like she’d been stung. She gives Kurt a hurt look and she’s gone, out the window in a blink. Kurt is left alone with a blackening stain on his roof, which begins to bubble and warp, like melted plastic.

He watches, resigned, as the corrosive substance eats his roof, and counts out his breathing as he cheerfully fantasises all the ways he’s going to murder Upstairs Neighbour. Self-strangulating scarves seem like an excellent option right about now.

The final defence of the roof gives out with a weary whine and a small hole – though expanding – appears in the middle of the blackness.

And from upstairs he hears a voice. ‘Oh no,’ it says. ‘Oh dear, oh _no_.’

Kurt stares at a wall, and breathes in. Count to ten, release. Breathe in.

Fuck that _._

He stalks over, arms folded tightly around his ribcage, and leans under the hole, mindful of any pieces of _dripping acidic roof._

‘Excuse me?’ he snaps.

Even the following silence is sheepish. Then he hears footsteps and a face appears in the space in his ceiling.

Kurt blinks. He hadn’t expected Upstairs Neighbour to be cute, but the hazel eyes and fifties slicked dark hair would be charming – figuratively speaking – if he weren’t so damn pissed. As it is, he wants blood.

‘Hello,’ Upstairs Neighbour says, crouching so his face is closer.

‘Hi,’ Kurt says icily. ‘Are you aware there is a hole in my ceiling the size of a _manhole_?’

Upstairs Neighbour bites his lip. ‘Well, I uh – yes. Yes there is.’

Kurt tilts his head and keeps his stare unblinking, which he’s been told is frightening in the eerie-spooky sort of way. Upstairs Neighbour shifts uncomfortably.

‘Why is there a hole in my ceiling?’ Kurt asks.

Upstairs Neighbour looks helplessly behind him, then back at Kurt. ‘I – well – I was experimenting? With potions?’

Kurt sees red. ‘ _Experimenting?’_ he spits, and Upstairs Neighbour recoils. ‘You can’t even complete a level _zero_ basic luminescence liquid and you think it’s a good idea to go around _experimenting_?’

Upstairs Neighbour stares at him, huge-eyed. ‘I thought it would be fun,’ he says faintly.

‘Fun,’ Kurt scoffs, and shakes his head. What an absolute idiot. ‘I’m coming up there,’ he tells the man irritably. He stomps away, and yells behind himself, ‘And step away from the hole! The floor is weak there, _if you hadn’t noticed!’_

Upstairs Neighbour is waiting for him at his door and holds out a hand in greeting. Kurt ignores it, and not entirely because he’s mad. Who knows how that hand might be contaminated? Experimenting _,_ honestly.

‘I’m Blaine,’ Upstairs Neighbour says, dropping his hand after a moment. ‘And I am so, _so_ sorry.’

‘I’ll bet you are,’ Kurt mutters, and slinks past Blaine into his apartment. The hole is in the middle of the room, twisted lips of the floor dangling over the edge uselessly. Mercifully, it’s stopped growing. The rest of the apartment is nice, old-school classy. The sort of place a grandfather clock would be at home in.

‘I’ve already sent a message to the chemical response management,’ Blaine says anxiously, trailing after him. ‘And I’ll – I’ll pay for the repairs, I promise, I’m so sorry – ‘

‘You’ve said,’ Kurt interrupts, but then he feels a little bad. Blaine reminds him of a puppy that piddled on the floor with his big doleful eyes and the nervous tangle of his fingers. Tail stuck between his legs.

Kurt waves a hand at the hole. ‘How did this even happen?’ he says, tries not to snap.

‘Oh, I dropped the cauldron on the floor,’ Blaine says, nervous smile wavering. ‘It would have been fine in the bowl – cauldrons are sturdy you know – but then I just – knocked it right over and it all came pouring out.’

‘So you’re clumsy as well as an idiot?’

Blaine’s smile flickers and fails.

Kurt sighs and ignores the shot of guilt threading through his anger. He makes his way over to the cauldron, which is stranded on its side on a nearby table. The remaining viscous goop is bubbling gently, innocently. Kurt narrows his eyes at it.

‘What exactly was it that you knocked over? Is this stuff even legal?’

‘I wanted to see if I could enchant my hair gel to last longer,’ Blaine explains. ‘I thought it seemed pretty... harmless.’

They both look at the hole in the floor.

‘I’m Kurt,’ Kurt says, realising he hasn’t introduced himself yet.

‘Oh, I know,’ Blaine says. Then he goes red. Kurt’s eyebrows rise.

‘Famous, am I?’

‘Just noticeable,’ Blaine says quietly.

The uncomfortable silence that follows makes Kurt itchy. He stares at the floor and thinks that the glossy floorboards are far too pretty to deserve the hole through them. He’s not so angry anymore, mostly because Blaine looks so pathetically apologetic. He’s always been weak for sweet dopey eyes and a nice smile.

‘I’ve been following the saga, you know,’ he finds himself saying. At Blaine’s confused stare, he goes on, ‘Your potion-making troubles. You have quite the vocabulary.’

Blaine’s eyes go wide. ‘You _heard_ that?’ he says, looking positively stricken. ‘Oh _no.’_

His distress is very cute. Kurt wants to smack himself for even thinking it.

‘I’ve never had to make anything before,’ Blaine tells him. ‘My mom always made our home-based potions before, and at one point we had a maid, and then the rest of the time I was at a boarding school and they just never taught us.’

Rich kid living on his own for the first time. Not surprising.

Blaine waves a hand at the mess on the table. ‘I really want to learn how to take care of myself but it’s just... harder than it looks.’

‘I could help out,’ Kurt offers, blurts out _stupidly._ He’s a dumbstruck idiot.

Blaine’s face brightens. ‘You could?’

Tell him no. You were just joking, you’re _mad_ at him because he ruined your ceiling, tell him _no._

‘Sure,’ Kurt says, feels himself smile like he’s not even controlling his own muscles. ‘I’ve been making potions for years and years, I’m pretty – adept. I could teach you food supplementation, basic healing potions, mood adjusting liquids, you know – those sorts of things.’

Blaine’s smile is dazzling, dizzying. And Kurt has always been weak for pretty eyes and a nice smile.

\--

Kurt is... gobsmacked.

‘I don’t – where did – what even – _how_?’

Blaine pats his arm. ‘I understand if you want to back out now,’ he tells Kurt, who levers his mouth shut again.

‘It’s a three-step process,’ Kurt says. ‘You heat the liquids and then you combine them, and then you transfigure it to retain the chemical properties. That’s all you do. Why is it _black_?’

Blaine smiles at him and between them, the not-even-close-to-a-success potion bursts a bubble, like it’s burping.

Three days later and they’ve met up in Blaine’s apartment for the first of their agreed lessons. The hole is repaired and without the stress of disaster the apartment is quietly inviting, with dazed yellow sunlight playing softly against the warm timber decor. The heat curls through the air lazily and Kurt could almost drift to sleep – if he could actually understand what he’s seeing.

‘I was just being a bitch when I said you couldn’t make a luminescence liquid. I didn’t realise you _actually_ couldn’t,’ Kurt tells Blaine in disbelief.

‘Well, look at it this way – I’m a clean slate!’ Blaine grins at him, ever the optimist, and spreads his arms. ‘Mould me into your masterpiece, Kurt Hummel.’

A less determined person would throw in the towel right now while he still has some dignity left. A less determined person would toss a potions book at Blaine and head back downstairs for a nice warm bath. But Kurt’s stubbornness puts mules to shame, so he thumps the cauldron back onto the table and meets Blaine’s steady gaze. He says, ‘Try again.’

In the next few days, he finds that Blaine is always smiling when he opens the door, and he attacks each of Kurt’s challenges with the eagerness of a puppy with a new chew toy. He’s bright and even-tempered, and he’d honestly be a fine potion-maker – if he weren’t so prone to distraction.

‘Potion making is a science,’ Kurt explains for the third time that week, when Blaine’s attention starts to waver. ‘You can’t estimate, and you can’t _experiment_ if you don’t understand the principles behind your experimentation, you know?’

Blaine nods, but his gaze over Kurt’s face is unfocused. Kurt’s mouth tightens. ‘So,’ he continues, ‘if the notes _say_ to stir the mixture three times, that’s what you do. And if it asks you to use an oak stirring spoon then you use an oak stirring spoon, not maple, not pine, and _certainly_ not plastic. Got it?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Blaine says, and Kurt snaps, ' _Blaine!’_

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Blaine says immediately, contrite. Kurt rolls his eyes down at the cauldron, which holds a silky turquoise liquid entirely of his own making. He stirs it once, twice, three times, just like the recipe says. It turns out perfect.

Despite Blaine’s shortcomings – namely, his habit of staring at Kurt when he _should_ be staring at his potion – he’s a star pupil and he makes progress steadily. Kurt’s hawkish eye doesn’t miss much, and he averts disaster more than once, to which Blaine is beamingly grateful. (‘What would I do without you?’ he says admiringly, and Kurt replies, ‘Burn a giant hole in my poor ceiling, of course.’)

On the day he successfully completes a luminescence liquid, his entire being lights up, just as bright as the moonlit glowing substance in front of him, and he claps his hands like a child. Kurt thinks it’s maybe the most endearing thing he’s ever seen.

Kurt isn’t the most zen person in the world but it’s hard to be annoyed with Blaine, who is eternally cheerful and relentlessly positive. He might as well be made of sunshine and has a natural charm Kurt envies. His thoughts are big and looping; he’s more interested in creating _art_ than functionality, and Kurt imagines the inner workings of his brain is like a canvas spattered with rainbow paint, crazy and intricate and beautifully bright all at once. He wishes Blaine were able to read a recipe, but he likes his boundless enthusiasm. And he really likes the way he smiles at Kurt.

Kurt’s not quite like him. He likes order and structure and control. He likes it when things make sense, gets anxious and tightly wound when they don’t. He approaches his world with a tailor’s eye, pulling each stitch of his life into place with the efficiency and precision of a mathematician. Potions are so _logical_ to him, each step sliding neatly onto the conveyor belt of construction, until it all tumbles together at the end and the satisfaction of a job well done purrs happily in his chest. He finds it soothing.

‘You’re amazing,’ Blaine tells him one night, always so open with his compliments in a way that makes Kurt’s chest feels tight with the squirming-embarrassed joy.

He shakes his head a little, but Blaine puts a warm hand over his and says seriously, ‘I mean it, Kurt. Look at me! If I’d tried to make a sleeping draught three weeks ago, I would have started a house fire and we both know it. Now see me!’

‘You’d do better if you had an attention span larger than a gnat’s,’ Kurt jokes.

‘You’re distracting,’ Blaine breathes.

Kurt’s heart _fwumps_ pathetically in his chest, and he can’t quite keep the smile from coming.

So he goes to class and work and Blaine’s apartment, and he lets their friendship – or... something? – build as it pleases, and his life feels that much brighter for Blaine’s presence in it. He begins to think Upstairs Neighbour dropping a vat of acidic hair gel on his floor one month ago may have been the best mistake he’s ever experienced.

The first time Blaine is over at his place, he smiles and waves at the pixie snatching herbs on his windowsill, and then he presents Kurt with a single rose, petals a perfect deep red, and tells him it’s been charmed to never wilt. Kurt blushes so hard he matches the colour of the rose, and Blaine looks very pleased with himself and just a little smug.

‘I noticed you, you know,’ Blaine says while they sit on Kurt’s couch and eat home-made cheesecake straight from the pan. ‘I saw you come in and out of the building sometimes. I would stare at you, even though it was creepy.’

‘Well of course you did,’ Kurt says, tosses his head a little. ‘I can’t help but pull focus.’

Blaine smiles at him, that sweet-crooked smile of his that Kurt loves. ‘I wanted to know your name. I thought you were beautiful. I thought I might ask you out.’

Kurt’s breath catches. It’s the closest either of them have come to acknowledging the rickety status of their relationship. He knocks his knuckles against Blaine’s hand. ‘Eat your cheesecake, Blaine,’ he says, but Blaine just smiles.

Another night they’re at Blaine’s place, a simmering potion half forgotten and pushed to the side, with two of the waxless everlasting candles Blaine charmed between them. The candles throw a warm light on Blaine’s skin and make his eyes look like whiskey, and he is so stupidly, infuriatingly beautiful that Kurt’s limbs feel weightless with nerves.

Blaine asks him how he got into potion-making, so Kurt tells him about his mother, who had been an artisanal apothecary and had filled their house with racks of substances running up to the roof of every wall of their kitchen. It had frustrated his less-than-nimble father beyond belief when he found himself tripping over jars of potions on every second step. It’s a bittersweet memory, and not one he would share with just anyone. He remembers the silence and stillness after his mother had passed, and the suffocating emptiness when his father had given those potions away to a charity, and the way his dad had pulled him close and whispered into his hair what he wouldn’t give to stub his toe on one of those jars one more time.

‘But she was _amazing_ , Blaine,’ he gushes while Blaine watches him with his chin on his hand and his mouth curved just slightly. ‘She could do anything, I swear. Her healing potions could have resuscitated Jesus.’

‘I would very much like to kiss you right now, Kurt Hummel,’ Blaine says in response, very calmly, and Kurt’s heart stutters, stumbles, stops.

When he remembers to breathe again, he whispers, ‘I think I’d like that too.’

So Blaine stands and draws Kurt close to him, a warm hand wrapped around his waist and the other at the back of his neck, and kisses him gently like he’s precious. And Upstairs Neighbour destroying his ceiling with acidic gel is _definitely_ the best mistake Kurt has been through in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> A short comment would really make my whole week, and kudos is always welcome. Thank you for reading! <3


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